In the Courts of Memory 1858 1875. by L. de Hegermann Lindencrone

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He looks more like an Englishman than a Frenchman; he is quite old, and I
fancy older than he looks (he may be fifty). He is tall and _dégagé_, with
a nice smile and pleasant eyes, though sometimes he gives you a sharp and
suspicious glance. He speaks English very well. I told him (stretching
a point) that I had never heard a foreigner speak such good English as he
did.

He replied, without a blush: "I ought to speak it well. I learned it when
I was a child." And he added, complacently, "I can even write better than
I speak."

I asked him if he could write poetry in English.

He answered: "I do not think I could. My English goes just so far and no
farther. I have what is strictly necessary, but not what is superfluous."
("J'ai, le stricte nécessaire, mais pas le superflu.")

"To make rhymes," said I, "I should think one would have to know every
word in the dictionary."

"Oh!" he said, "I don't attempt rhymes; they are far beyond me."

When he talks French he is perfectly delightful. He creates the funniest
words, and gives such an original turn to his phrases that you are--at
least I was--on the _qui vive_ not to lose anything he said. It is like
listening to a person who, improvising on the piano, makes unexpected
and subtle modulations which you hate to have escape you.

He told me he had been in correspondence with an English lady for over
thirty years.

"Were you in love with her, that you wrote to her all those years?" I
inquired.

"I was in love with her letters," he replied. "They were the cleverest
things I ever read--full of wit and humor."

"Was she in love with you or only with your letters?" I was tactless
enough to ask.

"How can you ask?" he said. I wondered myself how I could have asked so
indiscreet a question.

"Did she write in English, and did you write in French?"

"Yes, she wrote in English," he answered, and looked bored.

"Is she dead?" I asked, getting bolder and bolder; but he would not talk
any more about this clever lady, and we drifted into other channels of
conversation. Too bad! I would have liked to have known if the lady was
still living.

I wish I could remember all the pearls which fell from his lips; but alas!
one cannot, like Cleopatra, digest pearls. But I do remember one thing he
said, which was, "If I should define the difference between men and women,
I should say, 'Que les hommes valent plus, mais que les femmes valent
mieux.'"

I wondered if this was one of the pearls he let drop in his letters to the
wonderful English _bas-bleu_.

In the evening we danced to the waltzes of the Debain, and were obliged to
tread a very spasmodic measure. The Prince Imperial asked me for a polka,
and I had to clutch his shoulder with one hand and beat time with the
other on his arm to keep any kind of rhythm in his evolutions. It is nice
to see him circulating about and chatting with all the ladies.

_November 29th._

A message came to my room this morning, to the effect that I was to sit
next to the Emperor. I suppose they thought it best to let me know in
time, in case I should go wandering off sight-seeing, like last year, but
no danger! Once caught, twice warned, as the saying is.

Therefore, when we descended to the grand salon, I knew what my fate was
to be. The Due de Sesto, who had recently married the widow of the Duc de
Morny, gave me his arm and deposited me at the side of his Majesty.

The Emperor was in the most delightful spirits, and full of _bonhomie_ and
fun. Glancing across the table at a certain diplomat (Baron F----), he
said, "I never knew a person more impervious to a joke than that gentleman
is." And then he went on to say that once he had told the Baron the old
time-worn joke which any child can understand.

(You have heard it many times, I am sure, dear mama.)

One begins by saying, "Vous me permettez de vous tutoyer (You will permit
me to use the thee and thou)?" And then one says, "Pourquoi aimes-tu la
chicorée (Why dost thou like chicory)?" To which the answer is, "Parce
qu'elle est amère (ta mère) (Because it is 'bitter' or 'your mother')."

But I had better tell the story in the Emperor's own language.

"The Baron was making a call upon the Duchess de Bassano, one of the
ladies-in-waiting of the Empress, a severe and formal person, as you know,
and in deep mourning for her mother. He wished to make himself agreeable
and told her this story, saying that it was the most amusing thing he had
ever heard. But he forgot to ask her permission to use the thee and thou,
and said, point-blank, 'Pourquoi aimes-tu la salade?' The Duchess did not
understand, and he, bursting out laughing, continued, without waiting for
her to speak, 'Parce qu'elle est ta mère.' The Duchess arose, indignant.
'Monsieur, I beg you cease. My poor mother died three months ago. I am
still wearing mourning for her!' With which she burst into tears and left
the room.

"The Baron, nothing daunted, tried a second time to relate this anecdote,
this time addressing Baronne Pierres, another of the _dames d'honneur_,
entirely forgetting to use the thee and thou. 'Madame, pourquoi aimez-vous
la salade?' Naturally she had not the slightest idea what he meant, and he
rejoined triumphantly, 'Parce qu'elle est Madame votre mère.' What annoys
me beyond measure," continued the Emperor, "is that he goes on telling the
anecdote, saying, 'The Emperor told it to me.'"

The Emperor laughed heartily, and I did, too. Then he told me another
amusing thing:

At a ball at the Tuileries he said to a young American whose father he had
met: "J'ai connu votre père en Amérique. Est-ce qu'il vit encore?" And the
young man, embarrassed and confused, answered, "Non, sire; pas encore."
"It is so good," the Emperor said, "to have a laugh, especially to-day.
All the afternoon I shall be plunged in affairs of state."

I did not forget to tell the Emperor that Delsarte was wildly excited on
receiving the present his Majesty had sent him last year. I wandered
considerably from the truth, as, in reality, Delsarte, who is not
Napoleonic in his politics, had said when I gave it to him, "Comment!
c'est Badinguet qui m'envoit cela. Que veut-il que j'en fasse?" with a
dark frown, But I noticed he smoked _le bon tabac_, all the same; and
I am sure he said (even to his best friend), "Tu n'en auras pas."

Of course the Emperor had quite forgotten that such a person as Delsarte
had ever existed.

This was a perfectly delightful _déjeuner_, and I shall never forget it.

The numerous chamberlains were busy arranging the different amusements for
the guests, putting horses, carriages, shooting, and excursions at their
disposal; but we, unlucky ones, were in duty bound to abide by the
Marquis, who had now completed his troupe to his satisfaction. He had
enticed the two young Mademoiselles Albe and two of their admirers to
undertake the chorus; he was very grateful to them, as otherwise it would
have had to be suppressed--perhaps the best thing that could have happened
to it.

The Princess Metternich asked us to come to their salon (they have the
beautiful apartments called _les appartements d'Apollon_), in order that
we could try the music with the piano which her husband had hired, as
usual, for his stay at Compiègne, and which he had put at the disposition
of the Marquis.

The Marquis was in ecstasy, and capered about to collect us, and at last
we found ourselves stranded with the manuscript and its master, who was
overjoyed to embark us on this shaky craft. He put himself at the piano,
played the score from beginning to end, not sparing us a single bar. My
heart sank when I heard it, it was worse than I thought, and the plot was
even worse than the music--naïf and banal beyond words.

A lord of the manor (Vicomte Vaufreland, basso) makes love to a humble
village maiden (myself, soprano); the lady of the manor (Madame Conneau,
contralto) becomes jealous and makes a scene with her husband; the friend
and adviser (Count d'Espeuilles, tenor) steps in and takes his friend's
part and kindly says that it was he who had loved the village maiden. The
wife is satisfied, and everything ends beautifully.

It would be very uphill work for the poor Marquis and I wondered if he
would really have the patience to go on with it, after realizing how
unmusical the men were. D'Espeuilles stood behind the Marquis's bald head
and reached over to put his finger on the note he wanted to sing, and then
banged on that, until, after singing every note in the scale, he finally
fixed it in his brain.

Could anything be more despairing?

Our next thought naturally was our costumes.

The operetta was laid in the time of Louis XV.

Would we be able to find anything in the various trunks in the gallery
next to the theater?

When we went there we found everything we did not want--costumes, odds and
ends of all sorts, which belonged to all other periods than Louis XV. The
contents of the trunks were in a very chaotic state; each article which
once had formed one of a complete costume was without its better half; the
unprincipled things had meandered off and got mixed up in other sets.

To be sure, there was a Louis XV. coat, with embroidered pockets and
satin-lined coat-tails, but nothing more suitable for _culottes_ could be
found than a pair of red-plush breeches, trimmed with lace (I think one
calls them "trunk hose"), of Henry II.'s time.

When they were urged upon the Vicomte, he absolutely refused them, saying
he would not mix up epochs like that, and, after pulling over everything,
he decided to send to Paris for a complete costume.

Count d'Espeuilles was less difficult to satisfy, and was contented with a
black-velvet Hamlet costume, with a plumed hat, which suited no epoch at
all, but suited his style of beauty.

Madame C---- thought her maid might arrange out of a ball-dress some sort
of attire; with powdered hair, paint, and patches, she could represent the
lady of the manor very well. My Tyrolean dress of last year would do quite
nicely for me, when my maid had put the customary bows on the traditional
apron.

We all separated, carrying our carefully written rôles under our arms, and
in the worst of tempers.

Monsieur Dué was my neighbor at dinner. He is very musical, and was much
interested in hearing about the operetta. He does not think the Marquis
has any talent; neither do I! But I don't wish to give any opinion on the
poor little struggling operetta before it has lived its day, and then I am
sure it will die its natural death. Monsieur Dué has composed some very
pretty things for the piano, which he plays on the slightest
encouragement.

Nothing else was talked of in the evening but the operetta, and the
Marquis was in the seventh heaven of delight.

Their Majesties were told of the Marquis's interesting intention. I could
see, across the room, that the Empress knew that I was going to take part,
for she looked over toward me, nodding her head and smiling at me.

There was some dancing for an hour, when one of the chamberlains came up
and said to me that the Empress would be pleased if I would sing some of
my American songs. I was delighted, and went directly into the _salle de
musique_, and when the others had come in, I sat down at the piano and
accompanied myself in the few negro songs I knew. I sang "Suwanee River,"
"Shoo-fly," and "Good-by, Johnny, come back to your own chickabiddy." Then
I sang a song of Prince Metternich's, called, "Bonsoir, Marguerite," which
he accompanied. I finished, of course, with "Beware!" which Charles
accompanied.

The Emperor came up to me and asked, "What does chickabiddy mean?"

I answered, "'Come back soon to your own chickabiddy' means 'Reviens
bientôt à ta chérie,'" which apparently satisfied him.

Their Majesties thanked me with effusion, and were very gracious.

The Emperor himself brought a cup of tea to me, a very unusual thing for
him to do, and I fancy a great compliment, saying, "This is for our
chickabiddy!"

Their Majesties bowed in leaving the room; every one made a deep
reverence, and we retired to our apartments.

_November 30th._

The old, pompous, ponderous diplomat (what am I saying?)--I should have
said, "the very distinguished diplomat"--the same one the Emperor told me
yesterday was so impervious to a joke, honored me by giving me his
baronial arm for _déjeuner_. I can't imagine why he did it, unless it
were to get a lesson in English gratis, of which he was sadly in need. He
struck me as being very masterful and weighed down with the mighty affairs
of his tiny little kingdom. I was duly impressed, and never felt so
subdued in all my life, which I suppose was the effect he wished to
produce on me.

We sat like two gravestones, only waiting for an epitaph. Suddenly he
muttered (as if such an immense idea was too great for him to keep to
himself), "Diplomacy, Madame, is a dog's business." ("La diplomatie est un
métier de chien.")

I ventured to ask, "Is it because one is attached to a post?"

He gave me such a withering look that I wished I had never made this silly
remark.

All the same, he unbent a little and, with a dismal twinkle in his eye,
his face brightening, and launching into frivolity, said: "The Emperor
told me something very funny the other day. (I knew what was coming.)
He asked me why I liked salad." Turning to me he said, "Can you guess the
answer?"

I had many ready for him; but I refrained and only said, "No, what was
it?"

"Parce qu'elle était ma mère!" he replied, and laughed immoderately, until
such a fit of coughing set in that I thought there would not be a button
left on him. When he had finished exploding he said, "Did you understand
the 'choke'?"

If I had not understood the "choke," I understood the choking, and I
thought any more jokes like this would be the end of him then and there.

I answered quite seriously, "I think I would understand better, if I knew
what sort of salad his Majesty meant."

He shook his head and said he did not think it made any difference what
sort of salad it was. And we became tombstones again.

I could hardly wait till we returned to the salon, I was so impatient to
tell the Emperor of the Baron's latest version.

As his Majesty was near me, talking to some lady during the _cercle_,
I stepped forward so as to attract his attention.

He soon moved toward me, and I, against all the rules of etiquette, was
the first to speak.

"Your Majesty," said I, "I sat next to the Baron at breakfast and was not
spared the salad problem."

"How did he have it this time?" asked the Emperor.

"This time, your Majesty, he had it that you had said he liked salad
because it was his mother."

The Emperor burst out laughing and said, "He is hopeless."

It would seem as if Fate had chosen the Baron to be the butt of all the
_plaisanteries_ to-day.

Later in the afternoon we drove in _chars-à-bancs_ to St. Corneille,
a lovely excursion through the woods. The carriages spun along over the
smooth roads, the postilions cracked their whips and tooted their horns,
the air was cold and deliciously invigorating, and we were the gayest
party imaginable. One would have thought that even the worst grumbler
would have been put in good spirits by these circumstances; but no! our
distinguished diplomat was silent and sullen, resenting all fun and
nonsense. No wonder that all conspired together to tease him.

At St. Corneille there are some beautiful ruins of an old abbey and an old
Roman camp. When we came to the "Fontaine des Miracles" Mr. Mallet (of the
English embassy) pulled out of his pocket a Baedeker and read in a low
tone to those about him what was said about the miracles of the fountain.
The Marquis de Gallifet, not wishing any amusement to take place without
helping it on and adding some touches of his own, thereupon interposed in
a stage whisper (evidently intended to be heard by the Baron), "The waters
of this fountain are supposed to remove [then raising his voice]
barrenness."

"Baroness who?" asked the diplomat, who was now all alert.

Mr. Mallet, to our amazement (who ever could have imagined him so jocose),
said quite gravely, "Probably the wife of the barren fig-tree."

"Ah!" said the Baron, "I don't know them," thus snubbing all the fig-
trees.

"A very old family," said Mallet, "mentioned in the Bible."

This seemed to stagger our friend, who evidently prided himself on knowing
every family worth knowing. The Marquis de Gallifet, seeing his chance,
hurried to tell the story of the d'Albe family, which the crestfallen
Baron drank in with open mouth and swallowed whole. As the Duke d'Albe was
there himself, listening attentively and smiling, the story must have been
true! The Marquis de Gallifet said, when Noah was ready to depart in the
ark he saw a man swimming for dear life toward the boat, waving something
in the air. Noah called out to him:

"Don't ask to be taken in. We can't carry any more passengers, we are
already too full."

The man answered, "I don't want to be taken in; I don't care for myself;
but, pray, save the papers of the family."

The Baron looked very grave, and turning to the Duke asked, in an
extremely solemn tone, "Is this really true?"

"Perfectly," answered the Duke, without moving a muscle. "The saying,
'Après moi le déluge,' originated in our family; but we say, 'Nous
d'abord, et _puis_ le déluge!'"

"How interesting!" said the Baron.

Then Monsieur Dué, not wishing to be outdone, said his family was as old
(if not older), having taken the name of Dué from the dove [in Swedish
"dué" means dove] which carried the olive-branch to the ark. By this time
the poor Baron, utterly staggered and bewildered in presence of such a
concourse of ancient nobility, did not know on which leg to stand. How
could he and his family ever hold up their heads again?

We returned to Compiègne by St. Périne, where there was a most enchanting
view, and drove straight through a long avenue and entered _La cour
d'honneur_. It was almost half-past five when we reached our rooms.

I thought I had had enough of fossils and ruins for one day, from
breakfast onward, so when old General Changarnier came to offer me his arm
for dinner I said to myself, "This is the climax!"

But, on the contrary (the unexpected always arrives), he was so delightful
and genial that my heart was warmed through, which, indeed, it needed,
after the ice-chest I had had for _déjeuner_. He did not try to raise
me to his level, but simply let himself down to mine, and talked small
talk so youthfully that I felt we were about the same age. He was a
charming man.

Monsieur de Laferrière arranged a sort of ball for this evening. There was
an unusual flutter, for everything was going to be extra fine, and we put
on our prettiest dresses. Programmes with dangling pencils were lavished
on us, on which regular dances were set down--quadrilles, waltzes, polkas,
and lancers.

The usual _cercle_ was curtailed, in view of the ball.

The chamberlains, to facilitate matters, had arranged the boxes of music
for the mechanical piano very methodically on a table, so there should be
no mistakes or fumbling with the slides.

The ladies were so agitated, fearing they would not get any partners, that
they made very transparent efforts to attract the attention of the
gentlemen. One would have thought they had never been to a ball in all
their lives. The gentlemen, just as agitated, rushed about to secure the
ladies, whom they could have had _without_ the rushing on other evenings.
The Empress looked exquisitely beautiful. The Emperor stood in the
doorway, smiling at this whirlwind of gaiety and animation. The Prince
Imperial danced untiringly with all the ladies.

Flowers were distributed about, and, wonder of wonders! ices were served
at intervals, as if it were a real ball. My old general was chivalry
itself. He even engaged a partner for the lancers, and skipped about
telling everybody he did not know how to dance them, which was
unnecessary, as one could see for oneself later.

There are four kinds of people in society:

Those who know the lancers.

Those who don't know the lancers.

Those who know the lancers and say they don't.

Those who don't know the lancers and say they do.

My old and venerable warrior belonged to class number two, and really did
not know the lancers, but tripped about pleasantly and let others guide
him. When we came to the _grande chaîne_ he was completely intoxicated
with his success. Every eye was on him. Every one was occupied with his
doings, and his alone. All the ladies were pulling him first one way and
then the other, trying to confuse him by getting him into another set,
until he found himself quite at the other end of the room, still being
pulled about and twirled in every direction, never knowing where he was or
when he was going to stop. At last, utterly exhausted and confused, he
stopped short and placed himself in the middle of the ballroom, delighted
to be the center of all eyes and to make this effective _finale._ But no
one could compare with him when he made his Louis-Quinze reverence; the
younger men had to acknowledge that he scored a point there, and he might
well be proud of himself. All this made us very gay, and almost
boisterous. Never before had the evening finished with such a burst of
merriment, and we all retired, agreeing that the ball had been a great
success, and that Monsieur de Laferrière could sleep on his laurels as
soundly as we intended to sleep on our pillows.

_December 1st._

Count Niewekerke offered me his arm for _déjeuner_ this morning. He is a
Dutchman (_Hollandais_ sounds better) by birth, but he lives in Paris. As
he is the greatest authority on art there, the Emperor has made him Count
and Director of the Galerie du Louvre. He is very handsome, tall, and
commanding, and has, besides other enviable qualities, the reputation of
being the great lady-killer _par excellence._

As we stood there together the Empress passed by us. She held up her
finger warningly, saying, "Take care! Beware! He is a very dangerous
person, _un vrai mangeur de coeur!"_ "I know, your Majesty," I answered,
"and I expect to be brought back on a litter."

She laughed and passed on.

Monsieur Niewekerke looked pleasantly conscious and flattered as we walked
to the dining-room, and I felt as if I was being led to the altar to be
sacrificed like poor little Isaac. His English is very cockney, and he got
so mixed up with "heart" and "art" that I did not know half the time
whether he was talking of the collection of the Louvre Gallery or of his
lady victims. He did not hesitate to call my attention to the presence of
some of them at the table, which I thought was very kind of him, in case I
was unaware of it.

He is as keen about the good things of the table as he is about art; in
fact, he is a great epicure. As he thought well of the menu, I will copy
it for you:

_Consommé en tasses._
Oeufs au fromage à l'Italienne.
Petites truites.
Cailles au riz.
Côtelettes de veau grillées.
Viande froide, salade.
Brioches à la vanille, fruits, dessert, café....

"Well," said the Empress, as she stopped in front of me after _déjeuner_,
"are you alive?"

"I am, your Majesty, and, strange to say, my heart is intact."

"Wonderful!" she said, "you are an exception."

We had the choice between going to a _chasse à tir_ (without the Emperor),
and a drive to Pierrefonds.

I had enough of the _chasse à tir_ last year, and I still see in my dreams
those poor birds fluttering in their death-agony. Anything better than
that!

I preferred Pierrefonds, with its gargoyles and its hard, carved chairs.

I was glad Monsieur de Niewekerke went with us, for he was more
interesting and did not go into so many details as Viollet-le-Duc.

[Illustration: LA SALLE DES PREUX--CHÂTEAU DE PIERREFONDS]

The restoration has progressed very much since the last time we were here,
though far from being completed yet. In the huge hall Niewekerke told me
the statues about the chimney were portraits of the wives of the _preux
chevaliers_ of that time.

I thought the frescos of this hall were very crude in color; but Monsieur
de Niewekerke said they were excellent copies of the ancient style of
decoration.

The castle is such a magnificent ruin one almost wishes that it was not
restored.

I would like to see it in summer, not in this season, when one perishes
with cold and longs, in spite of its beauty, to be out of it and in a
warmer place.

There was a dense fog on the lake and a mist in the forest when we left,
and it was dreadfully damp and cold. The postilions took a shorter cut and
carried us through La Brévière and St. Jean aux Bois.

I should think both must be charming in summer; but now--ugh!

What was my delight at the Empress's tea this afternoon to see Auber, my
dear old Auber! He had been invited for dinner, and had come with the
artists who are to play to-night. He looked so well and young, in spite of
his eighty-three years. Every one admires him and loves him. He is the
essence of goodness, talent, and modesty. He is writing a new opera. Fancy
writing an opera at eighty-three!

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